


Voices of Those Who Stand Looking

by nwspaprtaxis



Series: Stairway 'Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Angst, Aunt Jess, Daddy Dean, Dean has a kid, Disabled Dean Winchester, F/M, Gen, Hurt Allie Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mutism, Physical Disability, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Uncle Sammy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 21:20:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5264003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can take the boy out of the life, but you can’t take the life outta the boy. Or: Allie needs stitches and Dean does them himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voices of Those Who Stand Looking

**Author's Note:**

> **Original Publication Date:** October 26, 2011 (as _Stitches_ )
> 
>  **A/N:** Takes place approximately one month after **Everything Still Turns To Gold** / **Rings Of Smoke Through The Trees** so it's probably best to read those two first if you haven't already. I had this posted on my LJ but I took it down to possibly rework. As that didn't quite pan out, it is now being reposted due to popular demand. For those of you who recognize it, yes, I've edited it and, yes, I've changed the name of Dean's daughter.
> 
> Many many thanks to **Tolakasa** who not only beta'd this (TWICE!), but also put up with me whining about this for years and convincing me this is lovely and deserves to be reuploaded.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that. Yadda, yadda. Also, the title comes from the song _Stairway To Heaven_ , which belongs to Led Zeppelin and its respective parties. I also don't own anything belonging to Pink Floyd or anything that smacks of popular culture.

Dean’s at the jungle gym almost before the first earsplitting note of Allie’s scream dies away. He hooks his cane onto one of the rungs and drops into a squat beside his crying daughter, ignoring the hard pull of damaged muscle and sinew. 

She’s sitting, legs drawn up, her hands clutching her left knee, the torn denim already soaked deep red between her fingers.

“I’m just gonna look,” he whispers softly, reaching out.

Allie shakes her head vehemently and lets out a whimper, tightening her hold on her knee, jerking it away from him. She hiccups once and her sobs ease and taper off now that he’s here. 

“I know it hurts.” He strokes her overgrown bangs out of her eyes. They are in serious need of a cut. “I’m just going to clean you up a little bit, okay?” Dean reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket and tugs out a black bandana. 

Allie slowly uncurls one of her hands from her shin and turns it upwards. He doesn’t comment as he wipes it clean. She switches hands and he sees her palm is going to have a bruise. The flesh is a little skinned up but it’s nothing a little antibiotic spray won’t fix. He ignores her knee and wipes the drying tears on her face. “Anything else hurt?”

She loosens her right hand and raises her elbow, revealing a deep graze.

Dean dabs the bandana against it. “Looks like you got pretty banged up. What do you say we go home and get you cleaned up? Maybe Uncle Sammy still has some ice cream. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Allie nods and silently watches as Dean uses the rusted metal bars of the jungle gym to lever himself upright. Bracing himself with his cane, he bends over and gently helps her to her feet. Her movements are shaky and uncertain and her legs are all quivery from the shock of her fall, but Dean shortens his stride and keeps a hand between her shoulders as he guides her to the edge of the playground, where they sit on one of the blue-painted metal benches.

Blood is still soaking through her jeans and she cries as she sits. Between the blood and the limping, it’s clear she isn’t going to be able to walk back home. She won’t let him get a better look at the damage, flinching whenever he tries to lean close, but, judging by the blood, he suspects she might need stitches. _Damn, there must’ve been glass_ , he thinks. He reaches into his pocket, takes out his cell, and speed-dials the house.

Jess answers on the first ring. “I’ll be right there,” she says after Dean has finished explaining.

True to her word, Jess is there within five minutes, her silver Corolla pulled as close to the curb as possible. She’s got the rear passenger door open and waiting for Allie before they’re even halfway. She goes to them. “Want a lift?” she asks Allie, who is limping badly. Allie shakes her head stubbornly and drags herself to the car. She looks up expectantly at Dean. Her puppy eyes are almost as good as Sam’s.

“Yeah, you can ride on my lap,” Dean sighs, opening the front passenger door. “Thanks,” he says to Jess as she shuts the rear door. He lowers himself into the front seat and lifts Allie onto his lap, careful to not let her bloody knee touch the upholstery. She curls up against him as he shuts the door and Jess turns the key in the ignition. It’s a tight fit and they’re probably violating umpty bazillion safety laws and guidelines but the trip is also less than five minutes. He ignores Jess’ judgmental stare and he’s grateful she doesn’t comment.

“Her knee’s bleeding pretty bad. Do you want me to take you to the ER instead?” She stops at the stop sign at the edge of the parking lot.

“No. No ER.” Dean takes a breath, grateful that Jess hadn’t used the H-word. There would’ve been hell to pay. “Just take us home. I got ’er.”

There’s silence for the remainder of the ride until Jess pulls up in front of the building, parallel parking the car with expert ease. She watches as Dean opens the door, sets Allie down on the sidewalk and awkwardly pulls himself out of the car. “You want me to carry her up the stairs?” she says finally. 

Dean opens the tall gate leading into the alley for Jess and Allie and follows them up the outside stairs. It’s easier than it was a month ago, when they’d first moved in. Then he’d needed Sam’s help or else had to go up and down on his ass, imitating his daughter in her sillier moments. These days, his progress is slow but steady and it doesn’t leave him so wrung out anymore.

They finally reach the landing. Allie is still clinging like some kind of lemur to Jess’ back. Dean reaches around Jess to unlock the apartment door. It takes some fumbling but they eventually succeed. “Where do you want her?” Jess asks. 

Dean points to the kitchen sink. “There would be perfect.” 

Jess nods, turns around, and seats Allie neatly on the countertop beside the sink as Dean limps to them. She steps away. 

“Shhh. It’s going to be all right, baby girl,” Dean murmurs as he leans his cane against the lower kitchen cupboards. “Daddy’s got it. Let’s see how bad it looks, okay?” He unsnaps, unzips her jeans and gently eases the bloody denim off, being extra slow and careful as he works it past her knee. She whimpers as the fabric snags and pulls.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

It’s bloody, but he’s seen worse in his lifetime and already the bleeding is starting to clot up. The gash is deep and gaping. He isn’t sure how she even managed to tear up her knee so badly. Inwardly he curses the idiot who would think of leaving broken glass on a playground.

“Jess? Do you have a first aid kit around here?”

Jess nods. “Yes, but shouldn’t you take her to the ER? I can drive you. That looks like it’s going to need stitches.”

Dean shakes his head. “No hospitals.” Allie lets out a soft cry at the word and Dean takes a breath. “We’ve both had enough of ’em for a while.” He leans forward and gives her a squeeze, ignoring her torn knee pressing up against his hip, smearing blood on the tail of his flannel shirt. “No hospitals, I promise. Don’t cry. I gotcha. I’m gonna fix it, all right?” He curls around her, thumb stroking her cheek and jaw, giving her an extra hug before pulling away.

Allie catches her lower lip with her teeth and bites down on it, nodding, her wide green eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears.

“You’re my baby girl, okay?” Dean repeats uselessly, searching her face, beginning to hum the opening bars to _Stairway to Heaven_.

Jess reappears at his side, setting the second-largest first aid kit he’s ever seen by his elbow. And his surprise must show because Jess rolls her eyes and grumbles good-naturedly, “I know. It’s ridiculous. I keep telling Sam we don’t need all of this crap but he insists.”

“It’s perfect.” Dean opens it and is greeted with the sight of everything he needs. He grins when he spots the square of green felt with several gleaming, sharp needles. And beneath it is a suture kit containing slick black “Catgut.” Dean breathes aloud. “Awesome. Who woulda thought, Sammy? You can take the boy out of the life, but you can’t take the life outta the boy.”

“What was that?” Jess glances up at him, frowning.

“Nothing. Just that Sam and I were daredevils growing up and our dad was always well prepared. Marine, you know. Old habits die hard and all that.”

“Right,” Jess says, her tone and raised eyebrow indicating she doesn’t completely buy his words. “Well, I’ll let you do what....” She trails off as she catches a glimpse of the tools Dean’s lining up on the counter — cotton balls, hydrogen peroxide, triple antibiotic cream, and sutures. “You don’t mean you’re going to stitch her knee up _yourself_?” Her voice rises slightly in alarm. 

“Yahtzee.” Dean flashes her a sharp look before turning back to his daughter and surveying the cut on her knee, judging how many stitches it’ll need to leave the least amount of scarring. “It’s fine. You can ask Sam. I’ve sewed him back together a couple of times.” Dean pauses and turns on the tap. _That long gouge in his armpit? I was seventeen._ He’s vaguely disturbed by the fact he knows as much as, if not more than, an EMT or a nurse when it comes to wound care, and he isn’t particularly freaked out at the prospect of stitching his own daughter’s knee. He scrubs his hands and wrists liberally, like a surgeon. He switches off the tap, ignoring Jess’ surprise and plants a kiss on his daughter’s forehead. 

He pokes through the first aid kit, trying to conceal how freaked out he is, halfway aware he’s probably contaminating his hands again. For a second, he regrets his promise to Allie and almost wishes he’d taken Jess up on her offer. An ER would be infinitely preferable to this, even including the potential meltdown and screaming fit. But then he finds an orange prescription bottle of Valium in Jess’ name and a tube of an over-the-counter numbing agent. “Sam, you’re a freakin’ Florence Nightingale. I love you,” Dean mumbles to himself as he reaches back into the box and pulls out a pair of latex gloves and snaps them on. Allie lets out a soft, scared sound.

Jess motions at him, hauls him halfway across the room. Her voice is low. “No, Dean. _No_. You need a sterile environment with doctors and people who know what they’re doing and have been trained for this. At least let me take her to the urgent care or the student clinic. Neither of them are hospitals. I’m sure they can make an exception, between Sam’s and my insurances. Hell, Stanford’s got a fucking _medical_ school. I’m sure that there’s some poor fourth-year who wouldn’t mind doing it….”

“I’m not taking her to anywhere that even looks like a hospital.” A breath. “This really isn’t my first rodeo. I can do it.”

“But, Dean….” She trails off, visibly gathers her courage. “You’re giving a kid somebody else’s prescription. How do you even know that would be safe for her?”

“My dad used whiskey.”

Her jaw drops open. He turns and limps back to where Allie is waiting nervously.

“Hey, look at me.” His voice snaps Allie’s gaze from the gloves to his face. “I gotcha, okay? Nothing bad’s gonna happen and I’m going to fix you. All right, baby girl? You trust me?”

Her eyes are still huge and round and shiny but she nods as he unscrews the cap of the LMX cream. It’s an older tube and it’s got gunk soldered to the opening, but it’s only six months past the expiration date. 

“Yeah. I’m gonna make it better.” Dean squeezes out a liberal amount of cream onto his finger. He’s gentle as he spreads a thick layer over her cut. He wants to clean it out but he knows it’ll work better this way. He picks up one of the extra large Band-Aids and covers the wound. “Okay, now I’m going to clean up your other boo-boos, okay?” He peels off the gloves, discarding them.

A silent nod and a single tear trickles down her cheek. He reaches out and wipes it away with a thumb before opening the bottle of muscle relaxants. He has no idea what the appropriate dose is for a four-year-old child who is a fraction of Jess’ height and weight. He glances at the label and sees that a dose is a single two-milligram pill. He shakes one of the pills out onto the countertop and reaches for the largest knife in the butcher block. He lines the sharp edge halfway down the pill and presses hard, cutting the pill cleanly in half.

He puts the slightly larger of the two halves back in the bottle and tosses it into the first aid kit. He reaches above Allie’s head and opens one of the cupboards, taking out one of the plastic cups. He fills it partway with water and hands it to her, the half-dose of Valium cradled in his other palm. “Can you swallow pills yet?” 

A small, timid whine is his answer and he isn’t surprised.

“Hey, it’s okay, I couldn’t swallow them either when I was your age.” He pauses, remembers how Dad used to do it. Granted, he was older than her but still…. “Open up.” She obliges and he aligns his palm with her mouth. Almost before she can blink, with a hard flick of his fingernail, the pill is past her gag reflex and down her throat. She coughs and he rubs her back until the shuddering eases, helping her hold the cup to her lips. “Sorry,” he apologizes softly as she drinks the water. 

Her eyes are still teary, brimming with reproach and hurt. Dean swallows down the guilt and presses his lips to her forehead. “We’ll have ice cream, okay?”

She rubs at her eye with the back of her hand and nods at him, her face serious.

“This is gonna sting a bit,” he warns her and opens the brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide, feeling weirdly domesticated as he tips some of the clear liquid onto a square of gauze, leaving her knee for the moment. Dad had stuck with soap-and-water because it’d been cheaper. It doesn’t feel right anymore. He’s not on the road, for one. He holds the soaked cotton between his fingers. “Lemme see your hand,” he says softly, more a question than a demand, and Allie uncurls her hand from her shin and she turns it up towards him. It’s darker than it was at the playground, the bruising beginning to settle in, and he can see it’s going to be spectacular by the next morning.

“You fell hard there, didn’t you?” He cups her hand in his and swabs at the scrape. She lets out a sharp little surprised sound as the peroxide fizzles white on the raw skin. 

“Shhh,” Dean soothes, blowing on the sting. He knows it’s counterproductive and is probably re-infecting the scrape with all kinds of germs, but Allie quiets. “You’re doing awesome. You’re way braver than your Uncle Sammy the first time he had to get stitches. Don’t tell Uncle Sammy, but he cried like a baby and he was way bigger than you.” He begins humming _Stairway to Heaven_ again, picking up in the trippy middle bit about pipers and whispering winds as he stoppers the peroxide bottle with fresh gauze and upends it. He runs the damp ball over her hand again, pressing a little more firmly, working away the grit and shredded skin. She doesn’t make a sound, watching his ministrations raptly.

He discards the pink-tinged cotton, picks up the antibiotic ointment, spreads a thin, generous amount over her scrape, and covers it with one of the large cloth Band-Aids. It’s far bigger than she actually needs, but it’s guaranteed to stay, and the extra padding will be a buffer against the bruising. 

He keeps humming as he repeats the motions, gently cleaning out her elbow. It’s not deep, just grazed. It looks like she caught the brunt of her fall on her hands and knees and skidded. He’s reaching for the regular-size Band-Aids when she makes a whine and shakes her head, pointing to the larger Band-Aids.

“This one will be fine.” Dean starts to open the sterile wrapper when she shakes her head again and points to the large bandages, a low, angry whine-growl coming from her throat. “Hey, it’s okay.” He sets down the Band-Aid and picks up the big one. “Better?” he asks and she nods.

Dean glances at the clock. He guesses maybe five minutes, tops, have gone by since he smeared the numbing cream on her knee. They still have twenty-five minutes to wait until the fun part begins. “You doin’ okay?”

She points to the freezer.

“Ice cream. Gotcha.” He limps to the refrigerator and opens the top half. He reaches in and pulls out the battered box of Neapolitan ice cream. He sets it besides her and flips open the lid. “So which will it be, baby girl? We’ve got white, pink, and a whole ton of brown.” 

Allie points at the pink.

“Girl after my own heart,” Dean tells her, scooping out a serving of the strawberry ice cream into a plastic Dora the Explorer bowl Jess had found at the dollar store and pressing it into her hands along with a small, purple child-friendly spoon. She fumbles with the bowl and spoon, her movements uncoordinated, and he guesses the Valium must be starting to kick in. He reaches out and takes the bowl, tilting it forward, in easy reach. Allie steadily makes her way through the pastel pink ice cream. When the bowl is nearly empty, her mouth stained white-pink, he asks, “Can I have some?” Dean leans forward expectantly, mouth open.

Dutifully, she scrapes up as much of the soupy softness as her spoon will allow and sticks it into his mouth. He traps his lips around it and she doesn’t pull it out, releasing the spoon. He tugs it out of his mouth and places it in the mostly-empty bowl, setting both in the sink. He glances up at the clock. “How’re you doing?” he asks Allie, who’s rubbing her eyes.

She reaches up, clearly wanting to be held.

“Not yet, I gotta fix your knee first. But we will, okay?” He gently raises her leg until her foot is flat against the counter. “Can you hold it up? Just like that?”

Allie nods. She turns her head away as Dean reaches out and peels off the Band-Aid. The bleeding’s stopped. The cut’s still ugly, but not as deep as he initially thought. Still stitches-deep, though. He squints, calculates it will only need three, maybe four sutures, tops, depending how small he does them. He debates for a moment whether or not he should do the traditional method, tying off each stitch, or opt for running stitches. He dampens a square of gauze with hydrogen peroxide and begins wiping away the mess of cream and crusted blood. He’s inclined to do the running stitches because they’re quicker, but they’re more likely to pull out because of the location.

“Can you feel that?” he asks softly, prepping a second square of gauze before working on the cut, clearing away the debris. He meets her scared eyes just as she shakes her head and flashes her a cocky, self-assured grin that makes her smile back and he’s glad he didn’t take her to the hospital. “No? Good.” Sluggish bleeding’s started up again when he reaches for the suture kit and measures out the catgut. Expertly, he threads the smallest needle on the first try and catches Jess staring at him, her expression simultaneously appalled and impressed. He knots off the end. “Don’t look. We’re going to make your knee look like a baseball.”

“You can squeeze my hand,” Jess says, stepping up beside him and stroking the back of Allie’s hand.

He inhales and exhales slowly, shrugging out the kink in his shoulders, and pushes the point of the needle through the first ragged edge of skin. He feels Allie’s other hand close on his shoulder and it makes him flick his eyes up. A glance at her face tells him that she didn’t feel any pain, but she’s edgy and nervous, fighting her obvious drowsiness. _Probably the drugs_.

He licks his lips and he hears Jess starting to hum _Stairway to Heaven_. Instantly, he senses Allie relaxing incrementally, although the tight grip on his green overshirt doesn’t ease. He throws her a grateful look.

He slips the needle back around and ties off the first stitch.

The second and third sutures go without a hitch.

He’s starting in on the fourth when he hears the door open.

“Dean?”

He feels Jess leave his side with a murmured “Sorry,” and hears her go to Sam, saving him from answering. There are soft murmurs and the sound of kissing, and he knots off the last stitch and surveys his handiwork. The stitches are tiny and even, and he thinks even Dad would be impressed.

He smears a generous amount of triple antibiotic cream over the wound, careful not to tug at the new stitches.

“Hey, Allie.” Sam steps up besides him. “I heard you got stitched up and you were really brave today.”

Allie stares up solemnly as Dean reaches out and rubs her arm. “She just had four of them.”

Sam’s eyes land on her knee and he lets out a slow whistle as Dean covers it with a fresh Band-Aid. “Wow. That’s a lot.” His voice is impressed. “And someone who just had that many deserves to be treated extra special.”

Allie blinks at him and holds out her arms.

“You want a lift?” Sam guesses, glancing at Dean before catching the girl’s nod. “Okay.” He pretends to grunt as he lifts her off the counter and settles her on his hip. Her arms wrap around his throat and she rests her head on his shoulder as he steadies her with one forearm under her butt and another hand at her back. “I’ll take her to your bedroom,” Sam whispers, rubbing between her shoulder blades, already walking away and Dean doesn’t bother correcting him that it’s technically their living room. _Was_ , anyway. He gave up on propriety five days ago.

He turns back to the mess in front of him and carefully begins cleaning up.

Jess steps up beside him. “What you did today…. You’ve done it lots of times before, haven’t you?” Her voice is soft, careful.

Dean nods, pressing his lips together tightly. Then: “Told you it wasn’t my first rodeo.” He tries for a cocksure grin but it doesn’t quite stick.

“What kind of childhood did you and Sam have?” He startles at the gentle tone in her voice and meets her unflinching gaze. There is no evidence of tears or pity, only sad curiosity.

“Trust me, Jess, you don’t wanna know.” His voice is thick and he swallows hard.

“No,” she says, “I do. If we’re going to make this work, if we’re going to do this cohabiting thing, if Sam and I are going to have any kind of future together….” She takes a breath. “You gotta let me in a bit. Sam’s just like you, you know…. Anything about your childhood, or your family, or not the present, you shut down and barricade me out.” She begins picking up the discarded first aid items, sets them down again. She exhales, stares into the countertop. “I’m not the enemy. I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help. I want this to work, but I can’t keep being the odd one out.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says quietly.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. Just…. How the fuck did you even learn to do this? Most people — _normal_ people — would’ve gone straight to the ER or at least urgent care. Instead, you do this….” She waves absently at the equipment in front of her.

“Practice.” The word is dry, rough.

“I figured.” The corner of her mouth quirks up. She sighs, screws the cap back onto the peroxide. “I’m not going to get an answer today, am I?”

Dean shakes his head. “Sam’s better at this than I am.”

“Allie probably wants you,” She says abruptly. “You should go rescue Sam. I’ve got this.” Her voice sounds congested.

“I promise we’ll tell you. Just…. Not today. Give us time.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she says, and he takes the out she’s given him, limps into the living room — and chokes. He stealthily sides his phone from his pocket and aims, thumb hovering over the button for the camera. Allie’d finally given in to the Valium and stress and fallen asleep, but having done so in such a way there’s no way Sam could’ve untangled her without waking the poor thing. He’s effectively pinned to the futon.

“Awwww. She loves you.” Dean grins. 

“Don’t you dare….” 

Dean snaps the picture. 

“Fuck you. I swear I’m going to….” Sam starts to get up, but Allie makes a sleepy protest and wraps her arms more tightly around him. Sam settles back. “A little help?” 

Dean goes around the futon, settles in beside Sam. He switches on the TV. “I could. But then you’d have to explain hunting and how we know enough first aid to put most first-year medical students to shame to your girlfriend.”

“Oh. Nevermind, then,” Sam says, adjusting Allie more comfortably against him. 

“Thought so.” Dean smirks. “Coward.” 

Sam unwinds one arm from around Allie, reaches out, and snatches the remote from Dean. “But if I’m going to be the human body pillow, I get to pick the show.” 

Dean turns down the corners of his mouth into a facial shrug. _Fair enough_. A pause as Sam settles on some History Channel documentary. “You know, we’re gonna have to tell her sometime. She’s a keeper, Sam.” Another pause. “Marry that girl.” 


End file.
